The Heather on the Moor
by nomorealurker
Summary: The continuing adventures of Hermione and Minerva, assuming a certain continuity with "Chivalry et al". Some things are going to happen.


**A/N: I am in fact going to continue with Chivalry, et cetera, but have determined the the most recent chapter requires a drastic rewrite and/or to be moved elsewhere in the story. In the interim, here is something that popped into my head the other day. Please note that as near as I can tell, the term "Dark Arse" was coined by HeadmistressX.**

From the corner of her eye, she saw her lover stride across the moor, the Highland sun glinting on her long dark hair. Even after eleven years, the sight never failed to stir her. Hermione looked back at her book and schooled her face into an appearance of concentration whilst she feigned inattention to the rapidly approaching woman. She suppressed a smile as she heard a contented sigh from about five meters off.

Minerva McGonagall had briefly paused as she crested the hill, scanning the moor for her lover. It took a few moments to find Hermione lying in the heather, nose buried in Sir Walter Scott – oh, how she loved how the woman found Scotland so engrossing, even after these years – oblivious to her approach. She sighed with happiness at the sight which greeted her: Hermione with her lovely, long brown hair spread out across the ground as she pillowed her head on a leather book bag. Minerva dropped down into the heather next to her lover, slid an arm around her waist, and pulled her in for a kiss.

Sir Walter Scott was quickly forgotten as Hermione, affecting an attitude of surprise at her sudden appearance, concentrated on returning Minerva's kisses. She rolled her thinner lover onto her back as the latter whispered a spell, causing all of their clothing to transfigure into a nine patch quilt which insinuated itself between their bodies and the ground. Hermione snickered at her Scot, resulting in a pause in the festivities and a raised eyebrow from Minerva.

"What are you giggling at?"

"Are you sure that your wee Scots arse can stand the sun?" Hermione asked in an attempt at a Gaelic accent.

"Ach, but that was terrible, my love. And you well know that it can, and that my arse is not wee, madam."

"Wee it may not be, but comparatively speaking..." Hermione snickered again.

Minerva swatted wildly at Hermione's posterior. "Not all of us can be as well proportioned as you."

Hermione caught Minerva's hands and pinned them above her head. "Now, see here, Headmistress. Your body," she kissed her lips, "is perfect," she kissed her way down Minerva's throat, "in every conceivable way," she made her way over Minerva's collarbone and to her sternum, "and if you do not start believing me, I shall be forced to write several feet of parchment on the matter." Hermione gently licked her way across Minerva's right breast, looked up, and said with an evil glint in her eye, "And you would not want to have to grade such an essay, now would you?"

Minerva was effectively silenced, whether by Hermione's threat or by the very creative way she was using her lips and tongue, or perhaps, even by the fact that at some point in the proceedings – while threatening her with an essay – Hermione had somehow silently managed to weave some heather into a sort of thick twine and bind Minerva's wrists with it. Instead of replying, she closed her eyes and smiled, which Hermione took as an invitation to continue her prior activities.

After they had made love – twice – they lay in the summer sun, bodies entwined, muttering to each other broken bits of sentences. Subjects, if one could call them that, included tea and biscuits, the relative light reflecting qualities of Minerva's hair, and the texture and expanse of Hermione's skin. After some unknown about of time, the original subject which had brought Minerva down from the house in the first place popped back into her brain.

"You received an owl."

"What was it about?"

"You know I do not read your mail."

"I really do not understand why not, at least on mundane-looking things. Was it mundane-looking?"

"It is from Hogwarts."

Hermione propped herself onto her elbows, grimacing slightly as an overused breast moved with her when she turned to Minerva. "Then you know _precisely_ what it is about, _Headmistress_."

Minerva grinned. "Indeed I do."

"The suspense is killing me."

"Oh, very well then. There is to be a ball celebrating the tenth anniversary of the ignominious defeat of the insufferable prat who shall not be named."

Hermione giggled. Minerva never spoke his name if she could help it, and not since her school days had she heard the term "Voldemort" cross the woman's lips. "Oh, my. It has been ten years already?"

"It appears thus. My love, you _are_ twenty-seven, on the cusp of twenty-eight."

Hermione groaned. "Indeed."

Minerva tutted at her. "Ah, now be careful my wee lass – we promised age would not come up, lest I ruminate on mine excessively."

"You are right. I do apologise." Hermione rolled onto her lover, thwarting the latter's efforts to get Hermione to straddle a thigh as she did so, instead pushing her hips between Minerva's thighs as she stretched her slow way up the woman's thinner, longer body. When her lips reached the level of Minerva's ear she whispered, "What were you saying?"

Minerva groaned in response. "Something about the passing of years since your graduation, and something about how spending a good portion of them under you has made them veritably fly by."

"Well done. I give you an 'O' for a well thought out answer."

"Ah, my love, you give me 'Os' for a variety of reasons."

"Touché. Tell me more about this ball; is it to be given by the Ministry, or are you in charge?"

"My dear, what makes you think that I of all people would organise a ball?"

"There is a first time for everything."

"There may be a first time for many things, but not for that."

Hermione smiled at her lover. "You win again. Now, tell me why you did not tell me about this when you first heard of it, rather than waiting until just now."

Minerva smiled back and rolled them onto their sides. "There is some...tension, I suppose you might say, regarding the pair of us."

Hermione sighed and flopped onto her back, covering her eyes with her forearm. "Still?"

"Indeed."

"Is no one at the Ministry aware that I am an adult, and indeed was an adult at the time of our first association?"

"Association, my love? Is that what you call it now?" Minerva snickered as Hermione flailed halfheartedly at her.

"You know what I mean."

"Apparently, there is some residual squeamishness about the way that Albus handled the situation as well as speculation that you were not acting under your own will."

Hermione scoffed. "Oh, indeed. Tom Riddle's master plan – I, the resident mudblood of Gryffindor Tower, would, under the Imperius Curse or some similar rot, curse Draco bloody Malfoy into a courtyard wall, thus necessitating our mutual escape from Hogwarts on a broom. I would then organise a series of events culminating in our first kiss, whereupon we found the solution to the Riddle riddle and rode off into the sunset together on Bane's back, yes?"

Minerva squirmed. Hermione eyed her; Minerva never squirmed. "Aye?" she prodded her lover.

Minerva sighed. "Yes, something like that, except that the rumour is that I, not the Dark Arse, had you under the Imperius Curse."

It should be noted at this point that in an alternate universe wherein Hermione Jean Granger, at the age of three, had not taken a tumble from the top of her Montessori school's climbing apparatus and broken her arm in two places - resulting in a lifelong fear of heights - she is presently the star seeker of the Holyhead Harpies. In that universe, Minerva McGonagall owns a set of season tickets in one of the very best boxes, and she and Rolanda Hooch skive off of faculty meetings on a regular basis, leaving a bemused Filius Flitwick to do far more paperwork than he does in the universe of our dynamic protagonist duo. This is to say that Hermione Jean Granger Prime is possessed of remarkable reflexes and speed.

In a flash, Hermione had risen, shifted the wards of the manor, and apparated back to the house. Minerva sighed and Banished the blanket and book bag to their bedroom as she shifted into her tabby cat state and ran up the hill after her irate lover. Hermione was not an easy woman to calm.


End file.
